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lERROT Wounded 



AND OTHER POEMS 



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By 



Walter Adolphe Roberts 




NEW YORK 
1919 



PIERROT WOUNDED 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

WALTER ADOLPHE ROBERTS 




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NEW YORK 

BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1919 



Copyright, 1919, by 
Walter Adolphe Roberts 



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^«ANSFEirff£o FnOM 
'^fP • \ 1920 



Jl'N 22 1320 



This edition is limited to 550 copies^ 
of which this is Number 

The type has been distributed. 



Ce livre est 

Affedueusement dedie a 

Katharine Amelia Roberts, 

line amie de la France. 



f 



Poems in the present volume originally appeared in 
Ainslees Magazine, The Forum, The International, Life, 
The Masses, Munseys Magazine, The National Sunday 
Magazine, Outing, The Parisienne, The Popular Magazine, 
Smith's Magazine, Sunset, The Brooklyn Daily Eagle, The 
New York Call, The New York Times, The New York 
Tribune, The Sun and The Evening Sun, of New York. 
The author thanks the above magazines and newspapers 
for their courtesy in permitting republication. 



CONTENTS 
SONGS FOR FRANCE 

PASE 

Pierrot Wounded 3 

The Barricades 5 

The Conquerors 7 

Tiger and Ape 8 

To a Friend Fallen for France 9 

Vive La France! 10 

To France 11 

For Poets Slain in War ^ . . . 12 

Place de la Concorde 13 

The Oath 14 

The Latin Resurrection 16 

The Cathedral 19 

Dusk on the Lake 20 

In the Park 21 

Our Street 22 

In Flagrante Delicto 23 

Pierrot Mourns 24 

The Woman Rebel 25 

Vision 26 

Lorenzo Portet 27 

The Procurer 28 

For Priests and Tyrants 29 

Eagles . 30 

Way of the Wind 31 

FIVE VILLANELLES 

Villanelle of Montparnasse . 35 

Villanelle of Washington Square 37 

vii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Vlllanelle of Capri 39 

ViLLANELLE OF PoOR PlERROT 41 

ViLLANELLE OF THE LiVING PaN 43 

DLVLOGUE AT SUNSET 

Dialogue at Sunset 47 

JUVENILIA 

The Mermaid 63 

The Call of the Tropics 65 

A Riding Song 66 

The Rover Bards 67 

Island of Dreams 69 

A Valediction 72 

Boyhood Etchings 73 

I: Tropic Sunset . . . = 73 

II: Tropic Storm 74 

Premier Amour 75 

I: O, Calm Gray Eyes! 75 

II: The Dream 75 

III: A Shrine Apart 76 

IV: Because I Hunger 77 

V: Once Again 77 

VI: The Wish 78 

NOTES 

Note I: Pierrot Wounded 81 

Note II: The Oath 85 

Note III : The Latin Resurrfction 87 



SONGS FOR FRANCE 

For Salomon de la Selva 



PIERROT WOUNDED * 

Pierrot has wakened, stricken in the night — 
Wounded and stricken in the pale moonlight ! 

See, with the mud. 

The crimson flood 
That, drop by drop, is fed by his young blood! 
A thicket shields his bed upon the ground. 
He will not listen to the cruel sound 

Of shells on high. 

That shrieking fly 
And rend the somber velvet of the sky. 

Frail, in his soldier's cloak, as in the gay. 
Poetic masquerade of yesterday, 

A final boon 

Of his loved moon 
Poor Pierrot asks in plaintive roundelay: 

"If, peradventure, in your silvern sheen 
Slumbers Pierrette to-night, and you, unseen, 

*Note 1. 

3 



PIERROT WOUNDED 

Touch tender-wise 

Her tired eyes, 
So that a dream of Pierrot may arise — 
Ah, let her see me as the debonair, 
Bohemian troubadour of days that were. 

Drunk with the strong. 

New wine of song, 
Joj^ous withal, although love's fasts were long. 

"For she will know her poet has been true 
To the fair flag of red and white and blue. 

A son of France, 

Through all mischance. 
He has been proud to be a soldier too." 

Pierrot falls silent, as in sudden wrath 

A bitter wind brings snowflakes from the north. 

Which, lightly pressed. 

Cradle to rest 
The stricken one. . . . But see! upon his breast 
The crimson blood, still welling to the light. 
Has wrought a symbol, mystical and bright ! 

La croix de guerre 

The brave may wear 
Shines forth against his shroud of purest white! 

4 



THE BARRICADES 

Ballade for France in an Hour of Darkness 

I, the France of the Marseillaise, 

I would have none of the German thrall. 

Flaming, I fought at the Marne's red ways, 
Made of my breast a brazen wall, 
Bulwarked the Meuse lest Verdun fall. 

Proudly massing a million blades. 
Now I cry to you, rebels all: 

Tear up stones for the barricades ! 

I, the France of the brave, bright torch, 

I have been raped and have drunk of gall. 
Ruthless, the alien cannons scorch 

Forest and orchard, hovel, hall. 

Soldiers of kings and tyrants crawl. 
Serving their masters, down my glades. 

Freemen, answer with bomb and ball. 
Tear up stones for the barricades ! 
5 



THE BARRICADES 

I, the France of the rebel hope, 

I am sore stricken, after all. 
Grimly my shattered legions grope. 

Striving to pierce the battle's pall. 

You who would free a world in thrall, 
Rally about your palisades ! 

Rally before I falter, fall ! 
Tear up stones for the barricades ! 

Envoy 

Comrades, rise at the bugle call, 

Workers and dreamers, men and maids ! 

Crimson flags to the wind for Gaul ! 
Tear up stones for the barricades ! 



THE CONQUERORS 

They have gone by above our broken dead, 

With lifted spears and eagles to the sky. 

Azure and gold and crimson banners fly 
In salutation of each laurelled head. 
The thunder of their chariot wheels, the tread 

Of conscript hosts, have stunned us to comply. 

Their martial music has brayed down the cry 
Of women hearts that mourn for those who bled. 

Aye, through the cycles of ensanguined days. 
Over our piteous and defeated dead. 

In splendor and in pomp they have gone by. 

Yet once we sang the rebel Marseillaise, 

And once the Commune chilled their hearts with 
dread : 

We do but wait — the Great Revenge draws nigh ! 



TIGER AND APE 

Their blood is in your veins, their bestial clay 
Still fouls your flesh, O King ! You are not free 
Of the fierce tiger's lust for blood when he, 

Full fed, yet bared his fangs to rend and slay. 

You are not free of the black fear that lay 
Upon the ape forefather in the tree, 
Who whimpered, waked by thunder claps, to 
see 

Majestic tropic lightning at play. 

Last year we deemed that man had journeyed far 

Upon the upward pathway from the clod. 
When you struck down the weak and called it 
War, 
Cringed to the force unleashed and called it 
God. 
Must the red dawns of myriad aeons glow 
Ere the last breed of ape and tiger go? 



TO A FRIEND FALLEN FOR 
FRANCE 

Alan Seeger 

Comrade, I had done well with you to swear 
Allegiance to the colors of romance, 
In the great days when our sweet mistress, 
France, 

Girded her loins and helmeted her hair. 

I had done well to march with you and share 
Heroic tests of shield and broken lance. 
Mayhap to strive in the sublime advance 

And fall with you at Belloy-en-Santerre. 

Thus had my vision been inviolate 

Of the divine Republic's flag unfurled 

Only in just defence, and dedicate 
Only to Liberty, against the world. 

Thus had I never mourned the wounds of France, 

Stricken too sorely in the devil's dance. 



VIVE LA FRANCE! 

Aye, Vive la France! Comrades, she shall not fall ! 
Though every furrow of her fields run red. 
And of her sons they heap ten million dead, 

Millions again shall answer to her call. 

We, the last legion, rebels, dreamers — all — 
On the brave barricades where she has bled, 
Be it our glorious privilege to shed 

Our heart's blood, lest she know the German 
thrall. 

She shall not fall ! There is no other light 

Save the white flame of her unconquered soul. 
She is the hope of freedom's renaissance. 
This be our battle cry, now when the night 

Broods blackest and the storms of hell about 
her roll : 
''Tout court, tout court, mes enfants! Vive la 
France!" 



10 



TO FRANCE 

Marvelous lover, give me leave to sing 

Your body's beauty; in keen words lay bare 
Your breasts for burning kisses, and declare 

The glory of your eyes unfaltering. 

Odor and color of my dreams I bring; 

Forbid me not that I should call you fair. 
Behold, I am entangled in your hair, 

And at your mouth have found the whole sweet 
Spring ! 

Others shall share our striving for the goal; 

To me alone the memory of days 
Crowned at the last by your supreme caress ! 
Others shall sing with me your rebel soul; 

Mine be the privilege alone to praise 
The naked pride of your white loveliness ! 



11 



FOR POETS SLAIN IN WAR 

Happy the poets who fell in magnificent ways ! 
Gaily they went in the pride of their blossoming 

days, 
Each with his vision of Liberty, chanting its 

praise. 

Seeger and Ledwidge and Pearse and Brooke and 

Peguy— 
Names that are songs in the saying, that surely 

shall be 
Laurelled among the immortals, for all men to see. 

Lo, they were darlings of destiny ! Weakly we 

shed 
Even one tear that they lie at the barricades red, 
Splendidly dead for the Patria, splendidly dead! 



12 



PLACE DE LA CONCORDE 

The myriad lights 

That deck my Paris in scintillant, splendid pride, 
Like gems on the warm, white throat of a queenly 
bride : 

See how they line the length of the Elysee — - 
Yellow of amber, red of the ruby's ^ow. 

And clusters of diamonds, white as the core of day, 
Starring the square where the cross-town cur- 
rents flow ! 

Imperial town. 

And Place de la Concorde, jeweled heart of it all! 

I bow my head to a beauty that cannot pall ! 



13 



THE OATH* 

From the French of Henri de Regnier 

I swear to cherish in my heart this hate 

Till my last heart-throb wanes ; 
So may the sacred venom with my blood 

Mingle and charge my veins ! 

May there pass never from my darkened brow 

The furrows hate has worn ! 
May they plough deeper in my flesh, to mark 

The outrage I have borne! 

By towns in flames, by my fair fields laid waste, 

By hostages undone, 
By cries of murdered women and of babes, 

By each dead warrior son, 

I swear to conquer or to fall, that Right 

And Justice rule again, 
I, France, whose voice austere shall thrill the 
hearts 
Of all my valiant slain ! 
*Note 2. 

14 



THE OATH 

I take my oath of hatred and of wrath 

Before God, and before 
The holy waters of the Mame and Aisne, 

Still ruddy with French gore, 

And fix my eyes upon immortal Rheims, 
Burning from nave to porch, 

Lest I forget, lest I forget who lit 
The sacrilegious torch! 



15 



THE LATIN RESURRECTION * 

From the French of Gabriele d'Annunzio 

What horror and what death 

And what new beauties 

Are scattered everywhere throughout the night ! 

By what prodigious wind are stirred 

The tongues of flame in travail, 

The flames that deck the Latin firmament? 

O, odes of mine ! swift messengers 

Of fury and of fire ! 

What god, what hero, or perchance what man 

Will come to lead us to our certain goal? 

I am no longer in an alien land, 

I am no more a stranger pale of face. 

No more the exile without sword or palm. 

A miracle has transformed me utterly; 

A virtue potent as a mother's love 

Uplifts and wholly carries me away. 

* Note 3. 

16 



THE LATIN RESURRECTION 

I am an offering of love, 
I am a ringing cry toward the dawn, 
I am the bugle of the elected race, 
Sounding a cry of rescue and of aid. 

Behold, I tremble! With bursting heart I sing! 

And I am drunk with love and with affright. 

It comes, it comes, the Vision I invoked. 

It aureoles the night; I cannot hear, 

Because of the mad vertigo of blood, 

The beating of its wings. 

It cries : "Who then will go for us, 

"As bearer of c^ood tidings to the world .^ 

"Whom shall I send.?" 

I cry : "Behold me. Lord, send me ! 

"But with what sign, what pact?" 

Yet well I know the sign, I know the pact. 

Obedient to the call, I set me forth, 

And thus fulfil the vow I made my soul. 

No longer weight of earthly flesh and bones 

Holds back my eager soul 

From leaping streams and climbing mountain 

heights. 
Already at the farthest bounds 

17 



THE LATIN RESURRECTION 

Of the clear Pleiades, 

I read the ineffable name, and hear 

The neighing steeds of the Dioscuri. 

Standing above the sepulchres, 

Wherein the bones of all our dead now stir, 

Like sprouts that push in springtime to the light, 

I cry and I invoke two names divine. 

The noblest names on earth, 

Looking to see the heavens overhead 

Bum with their glory. 

Looking to see two rivers long run dry 

Swell and remingle 

Into a single torrent. 

I cry and I invoke: "O, Italy! O, France!" 

And lo, I hear below the sepulchres. 

And underneath the shuddering laurel leaves. 

The cry of victory and the rushing wings 

Of eagles that sweep proudly to the East ! 



18 



THE CATHEDRAL 

From the French of Edmond Rostand 

They have but lent new glory to the fane. 

Art cannot perish when the vandals pass. 

Go ask of Rodin, ask of Phidias, 

If these proud stones shall speak to us in vain! 

The fortress falls when it is rent in twain. 
The broken temple lives ; and he who has 
Sight of the blue sky through the riddled mass 
Remembers then the roof with swift disdain. 

Let us give thanks — for lo, we needed still 
That which the Greeks have on their golden hill: 
Beaut^^'s insulted symbol, consecrate! — 

Thank the dull hands that trained the cannons on, 
Since there has flowered of their German hate 
A shame for them, for us a Parthenon ! 



19 



DUSK ON THE LAKE 

Dusk on the lake, as when I met you there 

In that immortal summer long ago : 
Have you forgotten that we found it fair? 

Dusk on the lake : Ah, Love, how young w^e were ! 
Hand within hand, your head held sidewise — so ; 
Dusk in your eyes and twilight in your hair. 

Dusk on the lake, and I alone to care. 

Seeing you come not through the afterglow. 
Must all things be forgot that once were fair ! 



IN THE PARK 

This is the summer's trysting place, and soon 
From out the East the newly-orbed moon 
Will lay light lips upon the mouth of June. 

Yet close — how close! — the roaring streets go 

down; 
And, flaming skyward, see the lights that crown 
The pinnacles fantastic of the town ! 



21 



OUR STREET 

To-night, adown our street, the soft Spring rain 
Lisps plaintively a very old refrain: 

The passing seasons, and the human throng 
Out of the dark and then the dark again. 

But though we love the street in this gray guise. 
With hair bound back and sadly streaming eyes. 

To-morrow we shall hail the pagan Sun, 
Eternal optimist of April skies. 



IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO 

Now that I fold you, hold you, close like this, 
Vanquish your mouth with one triumphant kiss. 
Press throat to throat, and breast where white 

breasts rise 
And rouse the flaming love-light in your eyes : 

What do we care for doubtful heaven or hell. 
For praise or blame? Ah, Sweet, wouJd we not sell 
Our souls thrice over for this hour to live. 
For this free hour of all that love can give? 



23 



PIERROT MOURNS 

Last night I made a roundelay 

For Columbine. 
My heart was as a drunken man's, 

Though not with wine. 
But cruelly she fled away. 

Ah, well-a-day ! 

At dawn I found her where she lay. 

No songs of mine 
Could waken from her silken sleep 

Sweet Columbine. 
And I am sad, w^ho was so gay. 

Ah, well-a-day ! 



@4 



"THE WOMAN REBEL" 

Margaret Sanger 

At last a voice that knew not how to He, 
A call articulate above the throng 
Of those who whispered of a secret wrong, 

And longed for liberty and passed it by. 

The voice of one with rebel head held high. 

Whose strength was not the fury of the strong. 
But whose clear message was more keen than 
song, 

A bugle to the dawn,' a battle cry. 

There is a new rebellion on the earth 

Because of your voice militant, that broke 

The silence which the puritans had made; 

Because you hailed the sacredness of birth. 
The dignity of love emancipate, and spoke, 

A woman unto women, unafraid. 



VISION 

The folk who in the blatant market-square 

Barter for fame and gold, 

Ah, how should they behold 
The dawn upon the far horizon flare. 

The rebel hope unfold ! 

But you, clear-eyed amid the selfish throng, 

Above their praise or blame. 

To you the vision came 
And led you forth to battle with the strong, 

A splendor and a flame. 



LORENZO PORTET 

(Died in Paris, May, 1917) 

Dead, at his fighting best, 
And his work not done! 

He must have found Fate's jest 
A bitter one. 

He, who had vowed to bleed 
Beneath bright blades : 

He, who was born to lead 
The barricades : 

Suddenly snatched away 

From earth and sun. 
Yet I can hear him say : 

"The cause moves on !" 



27 



THE PROCURER 

Masking her purpose, as wise Madams do, 
Behind a smile that flattered and allured. 
She held the customer her wit procured 

And subtle, suave, she spread her wares to view. 

She had a daughter vouched a virgin true; 
He had a name, estate and wealth assured. 
And since he had the sporting life abjured. 

He wished to marry and his youth renew. 

Cash on delivery, she made the sale. 

Pledging the maiden to a loveless bed ; 

Nor did the gods protest, the heavens fall. 

But when she decked her in the wedding veil, 
I think Dolores must have bowed her head 

And Rahab wept upon the city wall. 



FOR PRIESTS AND TYRANTS 

We've had enough of the damned blasphemy 

Of your familial deity on high, 
Sending you forth to each new infamy, 

Blessing the nauseating trade you ply. 

We do not flinch before the blows you strike; 

But when you call them bolts by God prepared 
To smite us down, our stomachs turn and, like 

The French at Waterloo, we answer : "Merdef' 



EAGLES 

Where are the Roman eagles gone? 

Where are the Feudal birds of war? 
And where the double-headed brood 

That led the legions of the Czar? 
Strangled by freemen one and all, 

Their broken bodies lie behind, 
And banners crimsoned in their blood 

Flap to the wind! 

Yet still in this broad world of ours 

There's fetish-killing to be done: 
Tyrants and princes, heed the sign 

Before your little course be run ! 
To-day the roaring armies surge 

About the German eagle's nest ; 
But once his blood is on our swords, 

God help the rest! 



30 



WAY OF THE WIND 

I have wooed the far horizons ; 

I have wandered with the wind. 
Ah, oceans I have sailed upon ! 

Ah, roads that lie behind ! 
I know the way from Mexico 

Adown the Spanish Main. 
And Aves, and Flores, 

My feet have trod the twain. 

The Boulevard du Montparnasse 

Is no strange street to me; 
And lightly down Las Ramblas 

I've loitered to the sea. 
Like Tommy Atkins, I have said 

Good-bye to Leicester Square, 
And Broadway and Kings way 

Have both to me been fair. 

Oh, I have loved the gypsy quest ; 
I have cast dice with Fate 
31 



WAY OF THE WIND 

From Mandeville to Montreal, 
And westward to the Gate. 

And on the trail or roaring street, 
These did I always find : 

A blue sky, or gray sky. 
And a companion wind. 



FIVE VILLANELLES 

For Edna St. Vincent MUlay 



YILLANELLE OF MONTPAR- 
NASSE 

They are as wanton as the sap in May, 

That wakes the chestnuts in this olden street. 
Fran9ois Villon loved women such as they. 

Theirs is the beauty of the avid clay. 

Ardors immortal in their pulses beat. 
They are as wanton as the sap in May. 

Their lips are carmine and their eyes are gay; 

The odor of their silken hair is sweet. 
rran9ois Villon loved women such as they. 

Through the blue dusk they amorously stray. 

Poets and dreamers wait their steps to greet. 
They are as wanton as the sap in May. 

They have forgot the griefs of yesterday. 

Youth in their hearts is passionate and fleet. 
Fran9ois Villon loved women such as they. 

35 



VILLANELLE OF MONTPABNASSE 

Dancing, they go the reckoning to pay. 

Of the dark Fates no mercy they entreat. 
They are as wanton as the sap in May. 
Fran9ois Villon loved women such as they. 



36 



VILLANELLE OF WASHINGTON 
SQUARE 

The starshine on the Arch is silver white; 

Elves, April elves, are dancing in the Square; 
The green-robed Spring has come to town to- 
night. 

Jasmines are in her arms and clouded quite 

With lilac is the nimbus of her hair; 
The starshine on the Arch is silver white. 

With sap at floodtide and pale leaves bedight. 

Ghosts of gray trees assume a vernal air; 
The green-robed Spring has come to town to- 
night. 

Young lovers' lips seek for the old delight, 

On the park bench that winter-long was bare — 
The starshine on the Arch is silver white — 

3T 



VILLANELLE OF WASHINGTON SQUARE 

And they who hear her primal call aright 

Rejoice that, deathless, virginal and fair. 
The green-robed Spring has come to town to- 
night. 

Dreamers whose windows on the Square are bright, 
Know that your dreams may not with this com- 
pare; 
The starshine on the Arch is silver white, 
The green-robed Spring has come to town to- 
night. 



38 



VILLANELLE OF CAPRI 

I knew you once, in Capri, long ago. 

You were a Roman woman ; I, a Greek ; 
And now, again, the ways we used to know. 

The hands that linger and the eyes that glow, 
The liquid Southern words we love to speak: 
I knew you once, in Capri, long ago. " 

By the white temple, where the olives grow, 

I sought the victory that still I seek ; 
And now, again, the ways we used to know. 

Looking to-night across a land of snow. 

Shall we forget because the skies are bleak? 
I knew you once, in Capri, long ago; 

And found your lips, and kissed them — even — so ; 
And scaled love's heights unto the topmost 
peak; 
And now, again, the ways we used to know. 

39 



VILLANELLE OF CAPBI 



Let us be glad of what the gods bestow! 

Let us accept the vision, cheek to cheek ! 
I knew you once, in Capri, long ago; 
And now, again, the ways we used to know. 



40 



VILLANELLE OF POOR 
PIERROT 

Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon! 
And will not hear my poet's serenade. 
Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. 

She seals my eyes with madness like a boon, 
Then flees me down the silver-silent gkide. 
Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon ! 

I stumble after in my dancing shoon, 

A pallid Pierrot from the masquerade. 
Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. 

Vainly I follow while the jasmines swoon 

And all too fast the midnight lilies fade. 
Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon! 

Vainly I seek her by the dim lagoon. 

She does not care that I so far have strayed. 
Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. 

41 



VILLANELLE OP POOR PIERROT 

I, who have spun a dehcate cocoon 

Of songs for her, am jilted by the jade. 
Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon ! 
Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. 



43 



VILLANELLE OF THE LIVING 
PAN 

Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake, 

Hard by the blue of some ^gean shore. 
Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake. 

Vine leaves have drifted o'er him, flake by flake, 

And with dry laurel he is covered o'^. 
Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake. 

The music that his own cicadas make 

Comes to him faintly, like forgotten lore. 
Ah, flute to him. Beloved, he will wake. 

Let not the enemies of Beauty take 

Unction of soul that he can rise no more. 
Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake, 

Dreaming of one that for the goat god's sake 

Shall pipe old tunes and worship as of yore. 
Ah, flute to him. Beloved, he will wake. 

43 



VILLANELLE OF THE LIVING PAN 

So once again the Attic coast shall shake 

With a cry greater than it heard before: 
"Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake!" 
Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake. 



44 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

For Harold Hersey 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

From the French of Pierre Louys 

CHARACTERS 

Arcas, a goatherd 
Melitta, a shepherdess 

Place A road in Pamphylia 

Time .550, B. C. - 

(The stage represents the bare earth of a road, 
a section of rustic fence on one side only. The 
back-drop should be gray-green, suggesting the 
landscape of Asia Minor; an occasional cypress 
and wind-bloTVTi olive trees. The lighting should 
give the effect of a rich, golden glow, grad- 
ually fading out until toward the end of the dia- 
logue the stage is almost in darkness. The cur- 
tain rises on Arcas and Melitta, he leaning on 
the fence toward her, she erect on the other side, 
timid yet defiant. Arcas is dressed only in a 
sheepskin, Melitta in a plain white Greek tunic. 

47 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Both carry crooked wands, roughly trimmed. 
There should be a brief silence before Areas 
speaks.) 

Arcas 
Young girl with black eyes. 

Melitta 
Do not touch me. 

Arcas 
That I do not do. You see that I stay far 
away, O sister of Aphrodite, young girl with 
hair curled like clusters of grapes ! I stop by 
the side of the road and I cannot go away — you 
see it — neither toward those who wait for me, nor 
those whom I have left. 

Melitta 
Go ! Go ! You talk in vain, O goatherd with- 
out goats, wanderer along uncertain roads ! If 
you can follow the highway no farther, cross the 
fields ; but do not enter my meadow, you whom I 
do not know ; or I shall call. 

Arcas 
Who, then, will you call in this wilderness .^ 
48 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Melitta 
The gods. They will hear me. 

Arcas 
Ah, little girl ! The gods are farther away from 
you than I am now, and even were they at your 
side, they would not forbid me to tell you that 
you are beautiful. For they glory in your face 
and they know well that it is their masterpiece. 

Melitta 
Be silent, goatherd! My mother has forbid- 
den me to listen to any man. I am here to watch 
my fleecy sheep while they crop the grass until 
sunset. I must not hear the words of young men 
who pass on the road with the evening breeze 
and the winged dust storms. 

AUCAS 

Why.? 

Melitta 
I do not know. My mother knows for me. It 
is not yet thirteen years since I was born on her 
couch of dry leaves, and I would be very rash if 
I did not do all that she orders for me. 

49 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Arcas 

Child, you have not understood your mother, 

who is so good and so wise and so beautiful and 

so honorable. She spoke to you of those savage 

men who sometimes invade the countryside, a shield 

on the left arm and a sword in the right hand. 

They would deal evilly with you, for you are weak 

and they are strong. In the cities they have 

taken during the dreadful wars, they have killed 

many young maidens almost as beautiful as you 

and they would not spare you if they found you 

in their path. But I, what could I do to you? 

I have only my sheepskin on my shoulder and 

my crook in my hand. Look at me. Am I, then, 

so terrible.'' 

Melitta 

No, goatherd. Your words are soft and I could 

listen to them a long time. But the softest words 

are lies, they tell me, when the mouth of a young 

man whispers them to one of us. 

Arcas 
Will you answer me if I ask a question? 

Melitta 
Yes. 

50 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Arcas 

Of what do you think, under the dark olive tree, 
when I pass? 

Melitta 
I do not wish to tell 3^ou. 

Arcas 
Yet I know it. 

Melitta 
Tell it to me. 

Arcas 
You must let me come close to you, or I shall 
remain silent. I can only tell this in jyour ear, 
softly, since it is your secret and not mine. You 
will let me come close? (Approaches.) Take 
your hand? (Takes it.) 

Melitta 
What do I think about? 

Arcas 
Of your marriage girdle. 

Melitta 
Oh, who betrayed it to you? Have I spoken out 
loud? Are you a god, goatherd, that from so 
far away you can read the eyes of young girls? 

51 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Do not look at me thus. Do not seek to read what 
I am thinking even now. 

Arcas 

You are dreaming of your marriage girdle and 

of the unknown who shall unknot it, murmuring 

some of those soft words that you fear. Will they 

also be lies? 

Melitta 

I have never heard them. 

Arcas 
But you hear mine and you see my eyes. . . . 

Melitta 
I wish never to see them again. 

Arcas 
You see them in your dream. 

Melitta 
Oh, goatherd ! . . . 

Arcas 
When I take your hand, why do you quiver.? 
When my arm closes about your breast, why do 
you lean toward me? Why does your feeble head 
seek my shoulder? . . . 

52 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Melitta 
Oh, goatherd! 

Arcas 
How could you yield thus to my arms, if I were 
not already almost your husband? 

Melitta 
Ah, no, 3^ou are not that ! Let me go ! Let 
me go ! I am afraid ! Go away ! I do not know 
you. Let me go ! Your hands hurt me. Let me 
go! I do not want you. 

Arcas 
Why do you speak to me, little girl, with the 
mouth of your mother? 

Melitta 
No, it is not she, it is I who speak. I am pru- 
dent. Leave me, goatherd. I would be ashamed 
to be as Nais, or as Philyra or Chloe, who did not 
wait for their wedding day to learn the secrets 
of Aphrodite. No, no ! I shall not yield to you. 
Were you to tear my tunic, even then would I 
not yield to you, goatherd. Sooner would I 
strangle myself with my hands. 

53 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Arcas 

Again, why? And what have I done to you? 

I have touched your tunic ; I have not torn it. I 

have kissed your girdle ; I have not unknotted it. 

Ah, well, so be it ! I abandon you. I set you free. 

I leave you. . . . Go away ! . . . Why do you 

not go away? 

Melitta 
Let me weep. 

Arcas 
Do you think that I love you so little that I 
would steal you from yourself? You are listen- 
ing to my words now. Would I use such words 
if I asked you only for a moment of pleasure such 
as any of the shepherdesses could give to me? 
Have my ejes not told you? . . . But you no 
longer look at my eyes. You hide yours, and you 
weep. . . . 

Melitta 
Yes. 

Arcas 

Nevertheless, had you willed it, I would have 

known great joy in passing all a lifetime of love 

and tender words at your feet. I would have 

placed both my arms about your body, my head 

54 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

on your breast, my mouth under yours, and you 
would have unknotted your hair so that it might 
fall about us and hide our kisses. Listen, if you 
had willed it, I would have built for you a hut, 
green with flowering branches and fresh grass, 
still alive with singing cicadas and golden beetles, 
precious as jewels. Every night you would have 
held me prisoner there, and on the white couch 
of my cloak our two hearts would have beaten 
eternally one against the other. 

Melitta 
Ah, let me weep a little longer ! . . . 

Arcas 

Far from me? 

Melitta 

In your arms ... in your eyes. 

Arcas 
My love. . . . The evening lengthens ; and the 
light departs, like a winged being, toward the sky. 
Already the earth is dark. At a distance, we can 
see nothing but the milky way of the rivulet that 
sparkles like a stream of stars about our little 
world. Yet there is too much light. . . . 

55 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Melitta 
Yes, there Is too much. . . . Take me away. 

Arcas 
Come. . . . The wood where we shall slip be- 
tween caressing branches is so deep that even in 
the daytime the gods are afraid of it. One never 
sees in the paths the cleft hoofs of satyrs follow- 
ing the light feet of nymphs. One never sees be- 
tween the leaves the green eyes of hamadryads 
holding the timid eyes of men. But we shall not 
be afraid, because we are together, only we two, 

you and I. . . . 

Melitta 

We shall not be afraid. I weep in spite of my- 
self, but I love you and I follow you. A god is 
in my heart. Speak to me. Speak to me again. 
A god is in your voice. 

(They commence to walk very slowly across 

the stage.) 

Arcas 

Twine your hair around my neck, place your 

arms around my waist and your cheek against 

my cheek. Be careful, there are stones. Look 

downward, there are roots. The moss slips under 

56 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

our bare feet and the earth is fresh. But your 
breast is warm under my hand. 

Melitta 

Do not seek for it. It is little, it is young, it 
is not beautiful. Last autumn my breasts were 
no larger than on the day of my birth. My 
friends mocked at me. Only this springtime did 
I see my breasts grow with the buds on the trees. 
. . . Do not caress me thus. ... I can walk no 
longer. 

AUCAS 

Come, nevertheless. . . . We have reached the 
shadows. I no longer see your face. We are 
neither you nor I. Cease giving me your lips ; 
I wish to see your eyes. Come as far as the old 
tree, yonder, beyond the moonlight. Its great 
shadow almost touches us . . . follow there. . . . 

Melitta 
It is as vast as a palace. 

Arcas 
The palace of our love, which opens for us in 
the heart of the blessed night. . . . 

57 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

Melitta 
I hear a noise . . . the sound of palm leaves. 

Arcas 
The rustling palms of the nuptial cortege. 

Melitta 

These stars. . . . 

Arcas 
Thej are torches. 

Melitta 
And these voices. . . . 

Arcas 
They are gods. 

Melitta 

O goatherd, I have come here virgin as Arte- 
mis, who lights us from far off between the black 
branches and who, perhaps, hears my vow! I do 
not know if I have done well to follow you, as I 
have followed ; but a breath was in me, a spirit 
which your voice brought to birth . . . and you 
have given me the joy of an immortal in giving 

me your hand. 

Arcas 

Young girl, with black eyes, neither your father 

nor my father has arranged our union before 

58 



DIALOGUE AT SUNSET 

the altar of their hearths by exchanging your 
wealth and mine. We are poor, therefore we are 
free. If any one marries us this night — raise your 
eyes — it is the Olympians, protectors of shep- 
herds. 

Melitta 

My husband, what is your name? 

Arcas 
Areas, and yours? 

Melitta 
Melitta. 

(CURTAIN.) 



59 



JUVENILIA 

For Joseplime Fannie Roberts, My Mother 



THE MERMAID 

Did I dream that I loved you once in days for- 
gotten ? 
O Mermaid, child of the spume and salt sea- 
foam! 
O fair, cold sprite that the restless waves un- 
covered. 
Last night as my bark came in oTn the long 
stretch home! 

For you smiled on me with an ancient, soft per- 
suasion — 
A lure of lips, a challenge of azure eyes — 
Till it seemed that once my head must have found 
its haven. 
Its perfect peace, where your white breasts fall 
and rise. 

Did you call me then? Do you call me now, Be- 
loved ? 
Behold, no mate for the sea-folks' breed am I; 
63 



THE MERMAID 

For my heart would turn to a shore by palm trees 
shaded, 
To a distant island under a southern sky. 

And my lips would weary grow of your cold 
caresses, 
And your golden hair be changed to a galling 
chain 
To keep me bound in your deep sea-caves of coral, 
Far, far from the hills and the sun and the 
summer rain. 

Ah, futile strife! For well do I know. Beloved, 
I shall come to you at the sound of your siren 
song; 
You will clasp me close ; I will shut mine eyes to 
sorrow, 
Ere the world too bitter grow and the day too 
long. 



84 



THE CALL OF THE TROPICS 

Out of the brazen city's clam'rous mouth 
A message came to-day ; methought I heard 
A sudden song-burst from a hidden bird, 

Far in some tropic island of the south. 

What charm is there that on my spirit lies? 
I know not now, but only that the day 
And all the mocking glitter of Broadway 

Have faded even as a dream that dies. 

While, sweet and swift, from out the years of yore 
Some memory floats — a breath of palms, per- 
haps, 
A parrot's cry, and then the distant lapse 

Of dreaming sea-waves on a dreaming shore. 

It is the tropics' call, and joy nor grief 
Has power to hold me now, as forth I go 
Far from the Northland with its storm and 
snow, 
To stray, heart-careless, on a coral reef. 

65 



A RIDING SONG 

Into the ultimate East, 

Into the arms of the day, 
I have flung myself with a wild halloo. 
Drenched with the cold, clean morning dew, 

And drunk with the scent of May ! 

Out from the hills and down the trail 

And over the rolling plain — 
Of the great earth-mother a pulse, a part, 
Head thrown backward and beating heart. 

And hand on the loose-flung rein. 

For it's on and on, and a long coo-ee! 

Rousing the ancient calm. 
I have found a way, I have found a track, 
I will ride till the sunset brings me back 

To the cabin beneath the palm. 



THE ROVER BARDS 

Filled with the love of living, 

Far from the city's reach, 
Hearing only the ocean 

Sob to a lonely beach; 
Seeing only the sea-birds 

Drift with the landward breeze," 
And the sunlight shimmer softly 

Over a thousand cays ; 
Treading the fertile valleys 

Where the slave had worn the chain. 
Sailing out from Aves 

Unto the Spanish Main; 
Down through the wond'rous islands 

In deathless springtime clad — 
Cuba, Hispaniola, 

Jamaica and Trinidad — 
Thus did we seek the old things, 

Thus did we seek and hear 
67 



THE ROVER BARDS 

Of wild deeds unrepented, 

In the haunt of the buccaneer; 

Fashioning forth our music 

Where the palm leaves toss and sway, 

On the sands by old Port Royal, 
Or beside Samana Bay. 

We who sat hy the camp fire. 

Watching the embers glow. 
We are the hards who sang together 

Songs of the long ago. 
You have not known their music y 

Thrilled to their wild refrain. 
Yet, if you list, for a season 

We shall sing the old songs again. 



ISLAND OF DREAMS 



Passionate light of the South, 
Flushing and fading to-day: 
Here at the harbor-mouth, 
Will it vanish in darkness for aye? " 
Nay! though I wander apart 
And bitter the long night seems, 
I shall hide it deep down in my heart, 
O my island of dreams ! 

I have known and I shall not forget, 
Bright, beauteous island of mine. 
The bamboos that rustling met 
Where Nature had made her a shrine, 
The strain that the solitaire sang. 
As I sat by the silvery streams 
And throbbed to the echoes that rang 
Through my island of dreams. 



ISLAND OF DREAMS 

How shall I thank thee enow 
For the young, sweet years that are dead? 
For the roses that lay on my brow 
And stained it their amorous red? 
Mystical roses of dawn, 
Breathing of wond'rous themes, 
Culled from an emerald lawn 
In my island of dreams. 

Passionate light of the South, 
Flushing and fading to-day : 
Here at the harbor-mouth. 
Will it vanish in darkness for aye? 
Nay ! though a beauty may lure 
That hath mirrored the light of thy beams, 
The old love shall ever endure, 
O my island of dreams ! 

II 

When oriole and blue bird were still 
And the glory of summer was o'er, 
When the snow was asleep on the hill 
And sullen the waves on the shore, 
70 



ISLAND OF DREAMS 

I paused, sick at heart of a day 
That knew not of summer's bright beams, 
And Memory bore me away 
To my island of dreams. 

Once more in the forest's dim calm, 
I heard the wild solitaire's lay 
Rise pure as a tremulous psalm. 
Intoned at the portals of day. 
And I saw the gold oranges burn, 
Bent low to the song of the streamy. 
And plucked the hibiscus and fern 
In my island of dreams. 

Rosy, the light of the South 
Flushed ere it faded again. 
And I at the harbor-mouth 
Vowed in a passion of pain: 
"Dear land, though my wanderer's way 
Should flame with a splendor that gleams, 
I shall love thee for ever and aye, 
my island of dreams !" 



71 



A VALEDICTION 

Before the seas again divide 

And another page be turned, 
Let these three things be written down, 

Reborn from the days gone by: 
The peak that rose through the morning mist 

The firefly flames that burned; 
And the Southern Cross in the hills of home, 

Hung low in a velvet sky. 



72 



BOYHOOD ETCHINGS 

1 : Tropic Sunset 

Oh, full and soft, upon the orange trees, 

Flamed forth bright beams of glory from the 
West! 
And through the boughs there sighed a gypsy 
breeze. 
Bearing a thousand perfumes on its breast. 

For it had kissed the coffee's starry spray, 
Had stolen sweetness from the lily's bell. 

And I had seen the stephanotis sway 

Before its breath, as it swept up the dell. 

The feathery bamboos pencilled on the sky, 

The cedar's branches garbed in August green, 
The palms that stirred storm-tattered fronds on 
high — 
All breathed the languor of the hour serene. 
73 



BOYHOOD ETCHINGS 



II: Tropic Storm 



The scent of jasmines in the sultry air, 
A deathly stillness hanging over all, 

Great sombre clouds, which float across the sky 
And hide the sun, as with a funeral pall. 

The birds' sweet voices silenced in the trees. 
As if they had not got the heart to sing. 

As on some twig, close-sheltered by the leaves. 
Each sits with ruffled plumes and drooping wing. 

But now a sullen murmur breaks the calm. 

The gathering East wind stirs the vapors warm, 

The roll of thunder smites upon the ear. 

The lightning flashes red — and bursts the storm. 



74 



PREMIER AMOUR 

I : O Calm Gray Eyes ! 

O calm gray eyes that have awaked my heart 

And held me in a love-enchanted spell ! 
O tender lips that ever seem to part 

In that dear smile that I have known so well! 
Why will ye pass not from my soul away, 

For one brief instant ; but all lovelier seem, 
E'en when the fierce light of the tropic day 

Would dim the glory of my golden dream? 
Ah, swift the answer comes ! a soft refrain, 

That thrills my spirit through; for well I know 
Dear Love hath bound me with his rosebud chain. 

Sweet lips, sweet eyes, I would not have you go ! 

II: The Dream 
Cradled amid the languid summer flowers. 

When there were shadows on the distant hills, 
And when the murmur of the island rills 
Made music through the golden-winged hours: 

75 



PREMIER AMOUR 

Behold, I dreamed a lover's dream of thee, 
As low I listened to the wood dove's call, 
And in the whisper of the waterfall 

Heard echoes of the far-ofF, slumb'rous sea. 

And if I deemed the memory of thy voice 
As passing far the hollow hope of fame; 
And if my heart's recital of thy name 

Sufficed to make me worship and rejoice, 

Ah, hold not that my dream was slight withal! 

The honeyed sweetness of the poet's rhyme! 

The fancy of a soul that might not climb 
To higher things ! For love, love crowneth all. 

Ill: A Shrine Apart 

The gray mist that hath fallen on my heart 

Hath made it heavy with its boundless woe; 
Yet have I kept a little space apart, 

A shrine to thee, a shrine to which I go 
And gaze in thy calm eyes, though but in dreams, 

And feel thee near me and thy hand in mine. 
In greeting or farewell, until it seems 

I almost hear a love-word that is thine. 
76 



PREMIER AMOUR 

IV: Because I Hunger 

Because I hunger for thy lips divine, 

With passion that I scarcely understand ; 
Because I feel the tremor of thy hand, 

Soft, shy, as when it lay long since in mine ; 

Because the rapture of my love's new wine 

Yet thrills me through in this far, alien land. 
And Memory whispers of a happier strand, 

Where deep I looked into those eyes of thine; 

Because these things are so, the spirit's dream, 
That bloomed amid the rosy-colored days, 

Is stronger than the city's mocking gleam, 

And careless of the mad world's blame or praise. 

So art thou still my angel as of old, 

My Love queen-regnant, and my Good untold ! 

V: Once Again 

Once again, when the long, strange days were 
over 
And the sunlight shone for us on an alien shore. 
You and I touched hands, as of old we greeted. 
Touched hands and trod in our kingdom of 
dreams once more. 
77 



PREMIER AMOUR 

You from the far, sweet South, where the palm 
leaves quiver, 

I from the heart of the city's unending strife; 
Souls that had drifted apart, then drawn together, 

Out of the darkness, over the seas of life. 

VI: The Wish 

I will not wish thee what the world would deem 

Life's choicest gifts ; for laurel leaves will fade, 
And worthless grow the glitter and the gleam 

Of days that mock Youth's tender light and 
shade. 
But that thy soul may keep its dreams divine. 

The clearer vision that beyond the stars 
Looked forth, and made the poet's secret thine: 

So may'st thou burst earth's sordid prison bars, 

And, musing, pass from splendid height to height. 
Nor heed the things for which men strive and 
pray; 

But from the mystic music of the night 

Draw wisdom that Time shall not take away. 



78 



NOTES 



NOTE I 

"Pierrot Wounded" is an adaptation of a longer 
French poem, "Pierrot Blesse," by P. Alberty, 
which appeared in Le Bownet Rouge, Paris, on 
March 13, 1915. The English version was printed 
by the New York Times on February 21, 1917, 
and a few days later The Brothers of the Book, 
Chicago, obtained permission to include it in their 
anthology of poems on the Pierrot theme, "Mon 
Ami Pierrot." The latter was issued in the sum- 
mer of 1917. About the same time, The Brothers 
of the Book put out "Pierrot Wounded" in bro- 
chure form, the proceeds being devoted to the 
American Fund for French Wounded. Comments 
on the poem appeared in many newspapers, nota- 
bly the New York Evening Post, the Brooklyn 
DaHy Eagle, the Chicago Herald and the Chicago 
Post. 

"Pierrot Wounded" has been set to music by 
Rossetter G. Cole. It was first rendered in pub- 

81 



NOTES 

lie at Columbia University, in July, 1917. The 
poem has also been made the subject of a paint- 
ing by T. Victor Hall, of New York. 

The original French version by P. Alberty is 
as follows : 

PIERROT BLESSE 

Air: Pierrot chante et meurt 
(Pauvre Pierrot par sa belle econduit, etc.) 

Pauvre Pierrot, blesse, seul dans la nuit, 
S'est ranlme sous la lune qui lult: 

Depuis des heures 

Que son sang pleure 
II s'en est fallu de peu qu'il ne meurt! 
II git par terre, a I'abri d'un buisson ; 
Tout bruit s'est tu, meme Fhorrible son 

De la mitraille 

Qui siffle et braille 
Dans le satin de Pazur qu'elle eraille ! 

Fluet, dans la capote aux larges plis 
Comme en la souquenille de jadis, 

A I'astre bleme 

Que tant 11 alme, 
Pierrot sourit falblement, et puis dit: 

82 



NOTES 

"Tu vois, Phoebe, c'est ton ami Pierrot 
Qui, malgre tout, ce soir, te dit son mot : 

Dans ma detresse, 

Pale Deesse, 
Je suis heureux de sentir ta caresse ! 
Je croyais bien que tu ne savais plus 
Me reconnaitre parmi les poilus ; 

Mais, quelle fete, 

A ton poete 
Tu rends ce soir visite, en tete a tete! 

"Pardonne si je te re9ois ainsi: 
Depuis longtemps deja je suis ici, 

Poitrine ouverte, 

Exsangue, inerte, 
Bien mal en point, mais . . . vivant, Dieu merci! 

"Qui sait? Peut-etre bien qu'en ce moment 
Pierrette dort sous tes rayons d'argent 

Et que, blafarde, 

Tu te hasardes 
A venir illuminer sa mansarde! 
Ah ! si c'est vrai, fais qu'en des songes bleus 

83 



NOTES 

Elle me voie ainsi qu'aux temps heureux, 

Reveur boheme 

Joyeux quand meme, 
Grace a I'amour, malgre de longs caremes ! 

"Pourtant, vois-tu, je suis fier, malgre tout, 
D'avoir su devenir un bon pioupiou: 

Sans hablerie, 

Pour la Patrie 
J'ai fait, je crois, mon devoir jusqu'au bout!" 

Pierrot se tait, epuise par I'effort; 
Soudain voici venir le vent du Nord : 

La neige fine 

Couvre d'hermine 
Le moribond ! . . . Mais, la, sur sa poitrine, 
Le sang vermeil, qui coule lentement, 
Fait une tache, a symbole troublant, 

En rouge se grave 

La croix des braves 
Sur le suaire de Pierrot tout blanc ! 



84 



NOTE II 

"The Oath" is a translation of "Le Serment," 
bj Henri de Regnier, of the Academie Fran9aise. 
The original appeared in Le Gaidois, Paris, in 

1914, immediately after the first bombardment of 
the Cathedral of Rheims by the Germans. The 
translation was published in Life, September 16, 

1915, with an illustration by T. Victor Hall. M. 
de Regnier's poem is as follows: 

LE SERMENT 

Je jure de garder dans mon coeur cette haine 

Jusqu'a son dernier battement; 
Que son venin sacre se mele dans ma veine 

A chaque goutte de mon sang! 

Que I'on voie a jamais sur mon sombre visage 

Sa rude ride sans pardon 
Se creuser dans ma chair, pour y dire I'outrage 

Dont elle marque le sillon ! 

85 



NOTES 

Par mes champs devastes, par mes villes en flam- 
mes, 

Par mes otages fusilles, 
Par le cri des enfants massacres et des femmes, 

Par mes fils tombes par milliers, 

Je jure de venger le Droit et la Justice, 
De vaincre ou de mourir pour eux, 

Moi, la France, et je veux que ma voix retentisse, 
Au coeur de mes morts valeureux ! 

Et ce double serment de colere et de haine. 

En face du ciel, je le fais, 
Devant les saintes eaux de la Marne et de I'Aisne 

Rouges encore du sang fran9ais, 

Tandis qu'eblouissante et sacrilege torche 

Je regarde, avec un frisson, 
Reims, ta sublime nef du chevet jusqu'au porche. 

Qui brule et croule a I'horizon. 



86 



NOTE III 

The strophes here translated are from an ode 
written by Gabriele d'Annunzio in 1914, imme- 
diately after the outbreak of the war. It was 
published both in Italian and French, the French 
version appearing in the Figaro, of Paris. The 
"Ode for the Latin Resurrection" was the fore- 
word of d'Annunzio's marvelous and successful 
campaign to bring Italy into the war on the side 
of France. Various renderings into English of 
the entire poem have been published. The pres- 
ent fragment was first printed in the BrooMyn 
Daily Eagle. It was noted by Captain Ugo 
d'Annunzio, son of the poet, in an interview in the 
Eveni/ng Post, New York, March 18, 1918. 



87 



-H 



The Critics Say: 



PIERROT WOUNDED AND OTHER 
POEMS" is a book of verse distinguished 
by poetic feeling and a practised hand. — The 
Sun, New York. 

He is a clear illustration of what an artist can 
do with the fixed principles of rhythm. He clari- 
fies them with fundamental ideas and emotions. 
His sympathies in art are Gallic and that may 
have much to do with the charm of his verse. 
. . . The stock is patrician. It is pure, it is 
brilliant. — William Stanley Braithwaite, in the 
Boston Transcript. 

Like Dowson, he has cared to do a few things 
extremely well. Among these are the "Villanelle 
of the Living Pan," which approximates fault- 
lessness, and closely approaching this is the 
''Villanelle of Montparnasse." . . . There is a 
touch of Arcadian primitiveness, and a shadow 
of subtle, half-sad sophistication, as of a mourn- 
ful Pan evoking music in a twilight mood of the 
emotions. — Review of Reviews. 

He writes with ease and grace, and he has 
evidently made the best use of some very ex- 
cellent French literary examples. . . . His trans- 
lations, or rather interpretations, are as true as 
they are technically admirable. — Maurice Francis 
Egan, in The Bookman. 



,^» 



